


Terrible Love

by thebesttempinchiswick



Series: I Go Ten Thousand Miles [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non canon compliant, Season 8, UA, but hey what else is new, dean doesn't like emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebesttempinchiswick/pseuds/thebesttempinchiswick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes up, and it's a new day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible Love

He wakes up, and it's a new day.

>

His joints popped and protested as he got out of bed, begging him to slip back under the covers.

It was early. Sam had left for a run, or at least, the note on the table said so.

Ah, Sam. He'd told him what happened when he got back the other night. Sam hadn't reacted well. However, that was probably because he had "told" him by way of drunken rant, and then drunken sobbing. He told himself that it had been manly sobbing, at least. He wasn't sad, it had been the drink. He wasn't thinking straight.

Neither of them had spoken of it since, but he could feel Sam's concern radiating off of him. He always thought too loud.

He almost cared, too. But in the end, he couldn't be bothered to, not really. Not when Sam looked at him like he was a cancer patient every time he lifted his flask to his lips, which had only increased in frequency as of late. Because caring would mean facing that. Facing the fact that on top of everything, he was letting his little brother down. And that about tipped the scales.

Maybe things would get better. But they sure as hell were terrible now.

So instead of caring, he turned on the shower and scrubbed his skin raw, and dried off and put on clothes and thought about getting coffee, but eventually settled on some Jack Daniels. And he didn't think about Cas. Not one bit.

>

If there's one thing he hated, it was predictability.

No, that was a lie. He didn't hate it all the time. Just then. Right then, he would have killed for something interesting. A nest of vamps, maybe. Or a den of werewolves. Something to get his heart pumping, make him feel alive.

But the universe seemed to be working against him, yet again. Because not only was it a regular case, it was a regular case with fucking comic tropes. The last thing he needed. Probably some witches' shenanigans, to boot.

His knuckles were white on the wheel, and he had to force himself not to look in his mirror every five seconds, to look in the backseat and see him back there, staring absently out the window like nothing was wrong.

Then again, maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe it was just him. Maybe his accusations had been spot on.

But thinking that, even just to himself, made him feel like the sky was caving in. And the sky couldn't cave in, not while he was driving at least. He didn't want to drive. He didn't want to work this case. His internal monologue was slowly becoming that of a five year old, who just wants to go home. He just wanted to pull over next to an empty field and lie down and not move. And wait for the clouds and the stars to come tumbling onto him, and hopefully kill him.

Maybe that was a little dramatic, but he didn't care. He had decided not to care about anything. Caring was overrated. Caring about things only led to problems, like the one in the backseat, who still hadn't said anything to him about their conversation the other night. He hadn't brought it up either, but why would he? Did he care? No.

The voice in the back of his head told him that maybe, just maybe, the reason he was so dead set on not caring was because he was afraid to be right. He was afraid that he had been completely accurate in his horrible accusations, that Cas didn't love him, not really (or not anymore, or whatever he had said).

He told it to shut the fuck up, unless it had something constructive to say.

>

Cas watched Dean intensely from the backseat of the car.

He was almost glad Sam had forced him to sit back here, because it allowed him to observe Dean more freely and without scrutiny.

He watched his hands, tense on the wheel. He was still angry. He could tell.

He knew those hands. Better than anyone else, you could say. He had grabbed hold of them in hell, held them as he rebuilt them. He had watched them clean guns and turn pages of books and fix cars and so many countless other things, but never without grace, without finesse. He'd seen them grip headboards with the same ferocity with which they grabbed the steering wheel now. The things he'd done (and had done to him) with and by those hands.

His shoulders were also tense, a soldier before battle. His neck was locked forward, eyes darting between the road and the mirror, never lingering on him for more than a second. He tried to look as nonchalant as possible, hoping to send the message that nothing was wrong. It didn't seem to be working.

Dean was an angry man. Cas knew that. He was beautiful, but he burned bright and hot, like a small sun. He felt anger deep and he felt it long, and sometimes, if he let it, it became a part of him. His anger towards himself was buried the deepest, a red, jagged river running through the gold of his soul. He wore that anger on his sleeve, but simultaneously kept it in his heart, refusing to let anyone tear it away. It was a greater tragedy than anything Shakespeare had ever dreamed of, and far more honestly, painfully human. He could challenge every great poet that had ever lived (or would ever live), and none would be able to capture if completely, for it ran so deep and resonated so purely. It was raw, and while not being unsightly, it caused him pain for the sheer burden it must be to hold it.

Outside of that, but still deep within him, was the anger he felt towards his family. It was so clothed and covered in shame that it was almost indistinguishable, yet it was there. For he had never learned that it was normal, that it was okay. He had never been taught that no one loves their family all the time. And so he buried his anger deep in shame, shame derived from a sense of wrongness, of failure. The shame of failing to love completely and wholly, even when not doing so was perfectly appropriate.

He remembered vividly a night when Dean had been drunk, back in their early years together, and he had tried to explain it to him. Sam had been off, drinking Ruby's blood somewhere, and Dean had confided in him that he was angry with Sam for doing it. He had tried to tell him that he had a right to be angry, but he wouldn't hear it. In his mind, he was angry, and it was bad, and it was his fault. Like a hamster on a wheel, he'd thought. Or a dog chasing his tail, only far more grotesque.

He was angry at many many people. He would never admit to it, but he was. His father, his brother on occasion, everyone who had passed him over when they could have helped him. Human anger, human faults. But he didn't know that, he just couldn't absorb it. And with this, Cas had decided to try to make him understand.

That had been before, of course, he had stepped into the reservoir. Before things became so scattered, and as a result, so fragile.

"We're here." Said Dean in a clipped tone, pulling him from his thoughts.

>

"Don't get me wrong. I'm – I’m happy you're back. I'm – I’m freaking thrilled. It's just this whole mysterious-resurrection thing – it always has one mother of a downside." He was definitely prying, but he was trying to do it gently. He had a feeling Cas knew more than he was letting on about his escape from monsterland.

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"Maybe take a trip upstairs?" He offered.

"To Heaven?" Cas sounded confused.

"Yeah, poke around, see if the God squad can't tell us how you got out."

"No."

So this was going to be harder than he previously anticipated. "Look, man, I – I hate those flying-ass monkeys just as much as you do, but –"

"Dean! I said no!" He sounded distressed by the mere thought of it. He stared at the floor, gaze unwavering.

And that did it. He knew something was wrong, and it wasn't between them. Cas didn't get like this, not ever. "Talk to me." He said, sitting on the bed next it him.

He took a deep breath, never looking at him. "Dean, I... When I was... bad... and I had all those things – the... the leviathans... writhing inside me... I caused a lot of suffering on earth, but I devastated Heaven. I vaporized thousands of my own kind, and I – I – I can't go back."

"Cause if you do, the angels will kill you." Was that what he was afraid of?

"Because if I see what Heaven's become – what I – what I made of it... I'm afraid I might kill myself."

Well that was a much bigger problem. He didn't know much about suicidal people, but the stories he had heard weren't pretty. He wasn't about to let this get any worse, even if it meant swallowing his own issues with Cas for a little while.

He clapped his hand on Cas's shoulder. "Hey, look, I'm sure you didn't screw it up that bad, right? I mean, heaven's a big place, they probably cleaned up after you."

Cas turned his gaze to his hands, fiddling with them in his lap. It made him look small, like a child. It was almost heartbreaking. "You didn't see what I did." His voice was far away, and choked up. It reminded him of years ago, a board game, a hospital. A wave of regret washed over him, shame like a hot, muggy wind. He'd been a dick, no question about it. There were a thousand ways he could've handled it, and he chose the worst one. It seemed like a reoccurring thing.

"You don't have to go back if you don't want to. I understand."

Cas finally turned to look at him. "You do?"

"Yeah, man. If it were me, I wouldn't want to either. We'll figure it out some other way."

"Do you really think we can?"

"Of course we can. We always do."

He could've continued, could've turned the conversation towards more recent events, maybe cleared the air, but just then Sam opened the door, and all of his desire to do so vanished.

>

His mood only worsened as the case went on. Cas could see it in his eyes, in the slump of his shoulders.

He had thought, for a moment, that maybe Dean would open up to him, but Sam had come in and Dean had shut off, as per usual.

It was, however, a particularity annoying case. But Cas still could tell that part of his sulky mood was the fact that they hadn't had a real conversation since that awful night a few weeks ago.

And at this point, he almost didn't want to start one. He knew Dean had a right to be angry; to feel wronged, but that didn't make it hurt less. His accusations had been cutting, and there had been no point in arguing them. Some of them were ridiculous, and they both knew that, but some of them rang truer. That he could leave again, at any time, for instance. It was true; he could. He sure as hell didn't want to, but how was Dean to know that? He'd have to show him, somehow, that he intended to stay. Maybe give him something to hold on to, something Cas wouldn't leave without.

He sighed inwardly. Dean was nowhere to he found. Sam was showering, and about to go to sleep. He knew they would leave in the morning, and he wanted to go with them free of tension.

Suddenly, an idea snapped to mind. He was off to gather some things with a puff of air.

>

Fuck if that hadn't been the worst case he'd ever worked.

He needed to relax, to calm down, and most of all he needed to be alone. So, he went across the street to the CVS and bought a pack of Marlboro cigs. He hadn't smoked since he was in high school, but thankfully the basic procedure hadn't really changed. You light it, take a drag, spend a few seconds feeling like you swallowed hot coals before the nicotine starts to kick in, and the bliss with it. It's a subtle feeling, your shoulders loosen, and you can breathe a little easier.

He sat on the curb with it, next to his car, not wanting to let the smell sink into the leather. It burned bright between his fingers, fragile like a bird's bone, little flecks of ash falling onto the pavement.

As if on cue, he heard a whoosh of air behind him. "Those things will give you cancer, you know."

"Hello to you too, Cas." He said as sarcastically as possible.

Cas sat down next to him, a small plastic bag crinkling in his hands. It looked like it was from a jewelry store or a Hallmark. "Hello, Dean."

"What's in the bag?"

"I have something I'd like to give to you, if you don't mind."

"Color me intrigued." He said. Cas just squinted at him and turned his head to the side. "It's an expression. I'm interested, I don't mind." He said.

"Oh. Well, uh, here." Cas pulled a small jewelry box from the bag.

For a brief moment, he wondered if it would be an engagement ring, and then he'd have to choose between saying yes and just rolling with it or saying no and telling Cas to try, maybe, a real date first. But alas, it wasn't a ring.  
It was a small, oval shaped locket, engraved with wings on the front. It was gold, and the actual locket was about the size of a dollar coin. "It's beautiful." He said.

"Open it."

He did, and it astonished him. In the locket, there were no pictures, just a small, ethereal blue light, perfectly coiled inside the metal casing. "Cas, is this –?"

"It's a piece of my grace. The other day, you told me that you couldn't trust me, because I could leave at any time, and you wouldn't know where I was or what happened to me. Now you have this, so I will never have truly left you. A piece of me will always be with you."

"Holy crap, this is amazing. Didn't it hurt, taking off a piece of your grace?"

"No, see, that's the best part. It isn't completely separated from the rest of my grace. It is still very much a part of me. And this way, it will always reflect the state that I am in, or that my grace, I should say, is in. You will always know if I am alright. And also, I've warded the locket, so you don't have to worry about anything ever happening to it."

He was speechless. "Cas, I, I don't know what to say. Thank you." Christ on crutches. This had to be the most thoughtful gift someone had ever gotten him.

He sighed internally. He knew he couldn't be angry anymore, he had no reason to be. He leaned over, letting his head fall against Cas's shoulder and undoing the clasp. "Will you do the back part?" He asked.

He felt Cas's hands brush his neck, and delicately hook the clasp together, before brushing tenderly against the fine hair on the back of his neck and dropping.

The metal of the locket was warm, and he could feel the grace thrumming inside, like a tiny heartbeat.

"We should rent a room."

>  
He could lay here for the rest of eternity, watching. Watching Dean sleep, peace smoothing the rugged features of his face. He almost looked like a child, completely at rest.

Were he an artist, he could imagine himself re-creating this scene, trying to capture it and pin it down on paper. He spent the night in stagnant calm, watching the ever changing light brush over the curve of Dean's chin and Adam's apple, the cupid's bow of his lips, the delicate, freckled skin that spanned his cheeks. He wanted to kiss him, to map every part of him with his lips. But he couldn't, not now. He didn't want to wake him, shatter the image in front of him.

He knew the word for beloved in every single language. Carissimi. Amado. Bien-amié. Saiai. That was to name a few. He knew it in Enochian, his native tongue, not so much spoken as whispered, delivered as close to the intended recipient as possible. The angels had been nothing less than efficient in their language, and at the same time, they had made it beautiful.

He felt a wash of sorrow for his siblings, that they couldn't have this joy, that they were to blinded by the chaos of their endless wars to see how breathtaking their father's creations really were. He almost felt guilty that he, the greatest sinner of them all, should have this, and they should not.

But then again, he was the only one who wanted this. He doubted they'd be interested in a human life, but he was. It was his best kept secret, really. His powers made him useful, and his usefulness determined whether he could help the Winchesters. But on nights like this he could pretend, if only for a little while, that he was human. He was human with Dean, and they would settle down and grow old together.

He could only pretend, however, so long as it was dark. The only thing that kept him from resenting the sunlight was the way it reflected off of Dean in the early hours, golden and warm and silently beautiful.

Beautiful, always. At the start of every new day. If he could pray for one thing, it would be for this nirvana never to fade.

>

Sleep came easy, and he woke as though it hadn't happened at all. For a brief moment, he feared he was alone, but warmth and movement next to him dismissed it. "Is it ever boring, staying here when you don't sleep?"

Cas shook his head. "A night is much longer to you than it is to me. As well, this is comfortable. This is what I know, now. I've done it for years, after all, just not quite so close."

With awakening came remembering. His memory of the night before returned to him in pieces, slowly explaining his scratchy throat and why he and Cas had their own room.

There was a period of silence, and then "Hey, I thought of something last night."

Cas looked at him, gently brushing the hair from his eyes. "Yes?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, first I need to apologize. I shouldn't have held a grudge against you for the whole self-punishment thing. I... I shouldn't have acted that way. Like I'd never done the same thing before."

"I appreciate your apology. And I understand. What did you think of last night?"

"Well, I was thinking that since neither of us is really responsible when it comes to that whole thing, we could keep an eye on each other. If you ever feel like doing something stupid again, you can talk to me about it. And vice versa."

Cas considered it for a moment. "I would like that. It might work better for the both of us, in the long run."

Because there would be a long run. And they could get better. And things could get better. He knew it.

He took a moment to drink it in. There would be a long run. Cas wasn't leaving. He might not ever leave. He could handle that, right? Right. He could handle Cas sticking around. He could grow old with him, and when it was lights out, they could spend forever upstairs. Maybe they'd even share a heaven. That was best-case-scenario, of course.

"You're thinking very loudly, Dean."

He tilted his head up to kiss Cas's neck. Not stopping, he trailed his lips in a line down to his collarbone. "I love you." He said.

Cas sighed contentedly. "I love you too."

It didn't last long before Sam came knocking at the door. He sighed again, and rolled out of bed. That was how it went, after all. You woke up, and it was a new day.


End file.
